The day after my conversation with Gary’s ex, Mary, Gary called his children to talk to them about leaving Washington, leaving Mary and most importantly, leaving them. I gave him my phone and watched him pace outside by the pool while I worked the coffee press. He came in, put down my phone and hugged me. It was the first time he had ever hugged me. His eyes were full of water and he choked up a, “I talked to them. I told them not to use this as an excuse to fuck up in school. You know? I told them it was because of Mary, not because of them.”
I just held him in the kitchen. Nothing was happening. No one was there. It was just a moment to be there, and I was.
There was another matter that needed resolve: I was horny and hadn’t had sex for a couple months. A comic I dated two years ago offered his services to me while I was still stuck in Washington state. As soon as I made my way down to California, I asked if he was still available. He said he was. First, I requested we wait until my monthly packet was in for school. When that deadline was met, we made a date the evening I started my period. I texted him, “I got a visit from Aunt Flo. Just a heads up. Do you still want to grab a drink or something or call it off?”
He wrote back: “Thanks for understanding. Let’s see each other next week.”
That was kind of a disappointment, even for a booty call. He didn’t feel my company was worth a few hours of time if I wasn’t sexually available. So I never called him again, and made plans to go out with a few of my queer friends to get back into LA. The raggedy crew for this particular night included Michael, the receptionist from Doggie Daycare (where I used to work) and a friend who often dog sat for me, Trent, my gay boyfriend, and Aura, the overnight at Doggie Daycare who was a bit scattered and out of touch, but ultimately a good soul. Once I called her to see if she could dogsit and she answered the phone, “Hello? Who is this?” I told her. “Oh … I was sitting here watching 21 Jump Street and my phone rang and I thought, ‘Who is calling me when I am watching 21 Jump Street.’” That is Aura in a nutshell.
She and Michael went dancing every week and asked I join them as soon as I was back in Los Angeles- so back to West Hollywood I went. On the way, I picked up my twin flame, Trent. My gay boyfriend. My best friend in confidence. My day tripper. My platonic lover. Me … if I was an androgynous Native American homosexual with a drinking problem. When I picked him up, he was kind and proper as he always is, “So, how’s it going?” he always starts. I noticed the scar around the top of his neck, just under his jaw, from his suicide attempt last June. He tried to hang himself in his room. His family dog barked until he was cut down. He ran away. The cops found him, put him in jail and then he hung himself with his pajama bottoms.
I lifted his head and smacked my lips and tongue in dismay. “Jesus, that is from June? It’s October.”
“I know,” he said, “It was pretty bad. I mean, I blacked out when I was hanging. They had to resuscitate me.”
I smacked my lips again and turned away, twisting my mouth. “Why do you have to do that?”
“I was fucked up,” he said. Trent is chased by shadows. The red burn mark across his burnt sienna skin looked like an upside down smile. I hated it. It reminded me how close he was to dying. A lot closer than I realized.
We got to the club, the Eleven Nightclub. The place was a typically overpriced gay bar in West Hollywood with mediocre music and more chain smokers than dancers. We went out back to join Aura and Michael on the smoker’s patio. Both had black hair, Aura’s hanging down in a sloppy ponytail with lazy eyes and lots of eye make-up, Michael’s the color of malabar black peppercorn. Michael is 5’4, 23 years old, with the eyes of a puppy left behind in a shelter. Even when he isn’t sad, his brown eyes still look glazed over with loss of some kind. He is the kindest person I have met in Los Angeles. We all attribute that to his youth and the fact that he is a recent transplant from Milwaukee. He will dogsit and not charge you, give you money, pay for everyone’s drinks and still go unnoticed because, really, all he wants is to be accepted and loved by anyone.
He will be your designated driver. He will buy you drinks until you are shit faced and never make a pass at you. He will pick you up on the outskirts of Los Angeles and still refuse gas money, refuse the thank you and disappear from your social scene for several months, quietly waiting for another invite. I didn’t know that much about him then. I was there to dance and really spend time with Trent.
“So you are still moving back to Milwaukee?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling, holding an American spirit up off the table top.
“So are you still skyping that girl?” I asked. Supposedly he was moving back to Milwaukee and entering a relationship with a girl back home.
“Yeah. Let me show you a picture of her dog,” he said, pulling up a picture of a corgi on his iPhone.
“Can I just say I am impressed your first instinct is to show me a picture of her dog instead of her?”
“Look, he is so cute. His name is Casanova,” he said.
We all thought Michael was gay. When Michael started at Doggie Daycare, he went through the usual initiation from the “kennel attendants”, that is to mean those of us who actually cared for the dogs in back. Michael was a receptionist, paid more and forced to deal with humans. Initiation was necessary for any new recruit, no matter your position. We mixed up the names of dogs. We gave the total opposite directions for how to handle something, where something might be and who to talk to. You either learned very fast that everyone was advising you the exact opposite of what you should actually do, or you quit. That was our fun stupid filter. Michael took it personally, and we all liked him, so most of us backed off a little. Most of us. Not Trent or me.
For our Secret Santa exchange, the gay doggie groomer gave Michael a Gay Porn magazine for Christmas. When my roommate at the time, Dora, tried to take it from him, he refused to give it back. We all thought he was in the closet because he had only lived in LA for a few years. To see him at a gay club, drinking around his people, and know he was heading back to a traditional life in the MidWest was heartbreaking. We all wanted him to stay and be happy. No one deserves it more than Michael.
“I had sex with a black guy recently,” Trent said.
“Was he huge?” Michael asked.
“No actually he was 5-6 inches,” Trent said.
“Who says that’s not huge?” Michael said, deadpan.
“He stood over me, jerked off and did the whole (Trent mimed a spit) and I did the whole (Trent mimed ecstasy mmmm). And then we cuddled. It was nice,” he said with that little cackle kept in the back of his throat. When we are alone, it comes out like a wildcat.
We sat and quietly giggled to ourselves over cocktails and cheap beer. Everything was expensive, so we tried to manage the drinks slowly. The bus boy came by and would take his time clearing my side of the table, then gave me the eyes and an elbow.
“He likes you,” Trent said.
I shrugged. “I despise you,” Michael said, rolling over me with his eyes.
“That’s a weird thing to say,” I said, knowing he was drunk.
“Why? Why is that a weird thing to say?” Michael asked.
“Because the only reason to despise her is if you really like her or you want to be her,” Trent said.
“How about we rock-paper-scissors for marriage? If I win, you have to marry me. If you win, then forget it,” Michael said, leaning close to me. Whether or not Michael was gay didn’t seem to matter in my world. I knew he loved my blog. When I wrote some of my more sexy French blogs, he pinged me:
“I will trade you (1) baby through the method of your choosing through (a) intercourse (b) artific insem (c) adoption of a legit black baby; for partial custody of (a1) all your doggies.
I’ve got sweet as hell genes btw”
“Uh oh . . . my blog got you a little warmed up, huh?” I wrote.
“Hot 2 trot,” he wrote back.
“And you called me last night. My words are so powerful. They move you! HAHAHAHA” I wrote.
“I think I called to make barking noises. Can’t quite remember,” he responded. He was the only person who ever drunk dialed my dogs. He would call up, late at night, and leave a long voicemail. I would wake up to listen to them over a bowl of cereal, listening to him beg to speak to Maggie and tell her how pretty she was. Or asking to speak to Brad and put him down because he is such a “Mama’s Boy”. Then he would ask to speak to my deaf dog, Esther, and say, “I know you can secretly hear.” He was hilarious.
“You’re the only one I entrust with my drunken late night shit talk, it is quite an honor,” he wrote.
“I feel honored. Sorry I can’t deflower you, I am in Washington,” I wrote back.
“You’re also about 7 years late.”
I knew he had a crush on me and I didn’t associate that with his sexual identity. Back at the bar, he would face me with a Bud Light. “Come on, let’s rock-paper-scissors for it,” he said again.
“Fine,” I said. We played three games and he won the best two out of three.
“Yes!” he cheered, “That’s it! No way out now!”
“Great,” I sighed, “Now I have to marry a sexually ambiguous 23-yr-old because I lost in rock -paper- scissors.”
“Yep,” he said, “You sure do. You know, I saw this 70s film called ‘Cruisin’ and for the last three nights I have had really dirty, graphic dreams about men fucking and woke up with a boner. I don’t know what it means, though.”
We tilted our heads to the side. Trent let out a half gasp, half cackle. “Because you are gay, honey, that’s why,” I said.
We danced inside for awhile. The music was not horrendous, it just wasn’t very good. Michael danced and a few men would gravitate towards him, dancing against or over him, whichever they could. Michael’s hips and torso, fist and forearm pumped in the air with welcome. Men were drawn to him because, despite being small, he was handsome. His arms are built, he clearly lifted weights. His boyish face and smile are easy to slip into. He is attractive, so men waited in a small line to take turns dancing with him. The three of us watched him and, though I can’t speak for the others, I felt a certain pride that he was finally coming out. He was finally realizing who he was- a fag and reject like the rest of us.
Go-Go dancers, all male and one female, danced on the bar. There was the one white guy who committed himself to the Asian chick go-go dancer in a Super girl shirt and knee -high socks. He mooned over her so everyone would know he was not gay, though in fact in a gay bar.
Trent leaned in to whisper something in my ear, and I turned instinctively into his mouth. His corpulent lips touched mine. “Oh my God,” I said, “My dream just came true.” His cackle fed out off his tongue a little louder this time and he continued to gossip about Michael’s sexuality. We wanted him to come out and save himself before he moved back to Milwaukee. Once he went back to the Midwest, he would be lost, oppressed, stuck with some girl he didn’t even think to show a picture of at a bar late one night.
After Trent had his routine fight with an authority male figure- sometimes taxi drivers, sometimes older men- this time a bartender who stiffed us on drinks, I made Trent pour his Bud Light into my mouth like a fountain on the dance floor before wiping my fingers over my lips and smearing the froth on Aura’s face (only later did I remember she was an alcoholic and that was in terrible taste) … only after all of that were we released onto an empty Santa Monica Blvd to fend for ourselves. There we were unleashed to the world to smoke and chat and laugh without 2am hovering overhead, without crowds and without an audience. We were free.
A tall, black man was flirting with Michael and we all waited in the cold, cradling bummed cigarettes, waiting for him to finish. It is part of an unspoken rule, you don’t rush it when someone is about to get lucky. Especially someone on the precipice of a major sexual revelation. In between exchanges with the stranger, who was in a relationship with another man, Michael would turn to me and say amazing things:
“Can I get real for a second?” he said to me, “You are a great girl. I’ve loved you from the minute I saw you. You are a very sexy girl. And I think men like you. Any guy that says he doesn’t like you is lying.”
“That is the nicest thing a man has ever said to me,” I said, looking at the man in a boy’s body. The stranger suddenly appeared, placing his midnight arms around Michael from 6’4 in the air and rocked him gently from behind.
“Have you seen Ghost? He is Patrick Swayze and I am that girl …,” Michael said, trailing off, grinning in another man’s arms.
“Demi Moore. You are Demi Moore,” I said almost sad. I turned to Trent and Aura, “My new fiance is being rocked like Demi Moore by a large, black man. Why am I disappointed?”
“Your new what!?” Trent asked.
“Fiance. I lost to rock-paper-scissors, so we are engaged,” I said, flatly.
“I am outraged. OUTRAGED! Engaged to HIM! HA!” Trent said, slugging it out to the forgotten trash on the street.
“You will always be my gay boyfriend,” I said, putting my hand on his arm. He threw it off playfully. “Twin flame.”
“That’s not good enough. He gets the hot black guy and my straight girlfriend, great. And I get nothing!” We chuckled and I took pictures. We were a messy crew, smeared make-up, burning cigarette butts, shivering under cheap coats and hoodies. We were who we are, unloved nobodies. At least unloved in the way we wanted to be.
Michael made out with the stranger as a few other men collected and looked on, waiting to use the ATM machine my new fiance was collapsed over.
“Who is that?” a new, shorter, black gentleman said.
“That’s my fiance. I can’t get a straight guy to commit to me .. that is just wayyyyy TOO much to expect so I am left sharing my future husband with a strange man at an ATM,” I said.
“I am really attracted to your personality,” the new stranger said.
“Yeah?” I said, “WHAT ABOUT MY LOOKS!?”
“I like those too, but your personality, I don’t know … there is something about it,” he continued.
“Well you figure it out and let me know, cause I promise if you are straight, you won’t commit to it!”
When we pulled Michael off the stranger at the ATM, like a corn husk too ripe to be bothered, we parted ways; Aura and Michael went to their car, Trent and me to the other. “Do you want to come back to my place for drinks?” Michael asked.
“Sure,” we agreed. Aura would go back to her home. She was in a relationship with a much older man even though they refused to live together. They worked best as a couple out of separate residences, but we all knew she was going back to him. The rest of us had no one else to go back to.
Trent and I drove back to Michael’s house in Pasadena. On the way to our parked car, we had trouble shaking the new stranger, who fell in love with my personality, and the tall white guy next to him. “I am a rapper, you should come to one of my shows,” he said.
“Oh yeah, what kind of rap?” I asked, “I only listen to one kind; Feminist spoken word.”
There was a silence as Trent rolled his eyes and leaned against my car. “I do that, too,” the new stranger said.
“Fine, call me,” I said, climbing into my car.
“But I don’t have your number,” he said. I turned on my engine and drove away.
“God, these guys are so aggressive. The guy who preyed on Michael and then this guy with you, I just can’t stand it,” Trent said. He had two silver balls pierced on the back of his neck, like reverse antennas. He is sexy but without the assistance of gender. He is feminine but a boy. Masculine but a girl. I know he feels he is often rejected or overlooked, but if I could look like anyone, it would be Trent. He is the best of both worlds. Big lips. Soft eyes. Sloppy, short hair. Thin as a rail. Skinny jeans. Rock n’ roll t-shirts. Enigmatic. Gay men often want twinks or typical, straight boys. Who wants someone who is everything?
When we arrived at Michael’s house in Pasadena, it was no surprise that a beautiful Victorian house had been trashed and reassembled into a dormitory. It smelled of dirty socks and rotting food. On the hardwood floors, in front of antique, bay windows were a slew of computer desks, computers and open bags of chips, soda cans and junk food. I walked into the empty large master bedroom on the first floor, which would have been mine if Michael’s roommate’s weren’t so opposed to the idea of more dogs moving in. It was gorgeous. The walk-in closet was as big as Alia’s kitchen nook- where my computer, books and Gary were stored. The smell and the total disregard for the space were a red flag. There was a reason why the previous two female residents moved out- the computer nerds were un-fucking-bearable. It smelled. I mean, it smelled bad. And to see such daylight and space completely wasted on Halo parties was heartbreaking.
Trent and I settled in Michael’s bedroom with beers we grabbed from the outside refrigerator. (That’s right, there is a fridge in their backyard just for beer). While Michael was in the bathroom, I turned to Trent and said, “You know who I really feel sorry for? That girl in Milwaukee. She thinks she is getting a guy who really loves her.”
“I know …” Trent said, “He just needs to admit he is gay and get over it.”
When Michael came back, we chatted into the night and left not too long afterward. Michael worked at 5am. What I didn’t know was Michael heard us through his bedroom wall from the bathroom. Not only did he hear us, he was incensed by what I had said. “You know who I really feel sorry for … that girl.”
The next week, I endured my sexual frustration equipped with a newfound love for bourbon, which both Alia and Frank always made sure to keep in stock. My attitude got sharper, a little less pleasant and a little more dark. I was short, immediate, antsy. “You either need to cut your caffeine in half or get laid,” Frank said. “I can see an actual difference in how your brain works from when you have sex and when you aren’t.”
“I know,” I said, “I am sexually frustrated.”
“Well, do something about it,” Frank prodded. “You have options …”
The comic was out because he wouldn’t have drinks with me on my period. Even though I actually liked him, like liked-him liked-him, I still wouldn’t tolerate that. There were young men on Facebook, actors, who pinged and texted me. With all my working and living 30 minutes north of the rest of Los Angeles, it was difficult. Finally, I contacted an old lover- Cowboy Whore (for those of you who have followed my blog that long), an actor I worked with on a student film in 2011 who was a little older than me, a lot taller, attractive, very well endowed and yet somewhat unnatural. He will resent me for saying this (again) but something, even now, in his interaction with me- even after a few bong hits and a few beers- feels controlled, scripted and affected. I call him Joel for the sake of this blog.
He invited me over to his new place in North Hollywood and I eagerly parallel parked at the end of his cul-de-sac. He invited me in and we shot the shit with his stand-up comic roommate before he went to bed. I stroked his roommate’s dogs. We spoke of how he lost two of his bartending gigs and was now on unemployment. I like Joel. I care about him. However, I don’t feel a connection and that annoys him, not because I think Joel likes me but because Joel wants to win.
We watched an independent film he was in, where he, of course, played a violent anti-Semitic who tortures and murders a Jewish family. No matter how I feel about him personally, the man can act. After I watched him molest a Jewish teenager in a bathroom and give an otherwise unsympathetic character some kind of a heart, the credits rolled and I leaned back on his bed. We were in front of the closet, spitting out socks and t-shirts on the floor, and I allowed him on my body so I could feel him breathe fire into my lungs and bury skin between my legs. When I say he is well-endowed I mean his penis is the size of a small person’s arm. It is intimidating. It takes time to ease in. And considering it had been some time since I had participated in any sexual activity, it hurt.
The next morning, he gave me a few orgasms with his tongue, which tends to tense up my vaginal canal. With anyone else, that would be a perk. With him it was an obstacle and after a few attempts, I told him I couldn’t fit him back in my vagina. “Well, you could offer a guy a blowjob,” he said, almost jokingly.
“You know my rules about blowjobs,” I said.
“I think its silly to have rules. You should just do what feels right,” he said, “Rules with regards to sex are silly and totally impractical.”
“Ok, let me rephrase: I don’t feel intimate enough with you to give you a blowjob.”
“Alright,” he said.
“No, we should address this. I used the word ‘rule’ before to ease the news, but the truth is I just don’t feel comfortable or close enough to you-”
“Alright, alright, alright!” he said. “I get the point!”
I wanted to date Joel. I wanted this time around to be different and feel that connection I couldn’t find almost two years before, in the dark, smoking pot and listening to She & Him. There is just something keeping me from the real him, and because of that we will never have really good sex.
I went back home and Alia was waiting for me, as usual. “How was it?” she asked.
“It served its purpose,” I said. “I just always feel there is something keeping him from being completely genuine.”
Alia was bringing older men back to her fairyland every once in awhile. She and Ryan weren’t serious yet, and there were a few one-time dates with men in their forties. An older gentleman the leered at me and Alia as we danced and seemed a little too entertained by a flirtatious text exchange I had with the Quarterback. “You are texting an 18-year-old?” he asked, before dragging a chair across the floor and parking it in front of the couch.
“Yeah, so?” I said, holding up my phone and giving him an icy stare.
Another older guy arrived via Skype in Alia’s living room. He offered advice when I opened up about my parents and I was too drunk to deal with him. “Don’t tell me who I am!” I said to the floating head on the screen, “You have no idea who I am or how hard I work or what my parents mean to me.”
“If you want your dreams, then work for them, that’s all I am saying,” he said.
“And what about you? Are you working for your dreams right now?” I said … just before spilling the bong water all over Alia’s MacBook (I still owe $230 for in repairs) She wiped it up as I promulgated, “I am working! I AM! A person like you doesn’t even know what that means!”
Another time, Alia brought an older guy back to play poker with Frank and Ryan and herself. They had taken up late night poker since Frank was introduced to the circle. I can’t play poker, not because I am poor. Ryan and Gary were dirt poor. Alia and Frank were not. They would put money in a pile and divvy it up among them for a game just so there were stakes. I can’t play simply because I can’t bluff. It is embarrassing. You would think as an actress, I could manipulate any moment. However, as an actress I simply generate genuine feelings for the moment whether they pertain to a tangible reality or not. If I have a good hand, I giggle. If I have a bad hand, you can see it in my frown and eyebrows, crunching forward, desperate to break the code.
On this particular night, Alia brought this older gentleman over. She cooked dinner as he left for a marijuana dispensary to pick us all up goodies with her money. After two hours of no phone call, no show and no word, we decided to smoke his joint and eat without him. He wasn’t picking up his phone anyway. Shortly thereafter, he showed up. He must have been in his early 60s, grey hair, wispy in the sense that Southern California played with him and was almost ready to discard him; his thick tan, his melting wrinkles and forced physique. He walked back to us in the firepit and said, “My phone died. That was terrible. I had to drive all the way to Encino to find an open dispensary.” Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the valley, Encino is 10 miles from West Hills. I kept my big mouth shut.
“I had to drive all the way to Encino. Thank God they were open,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Alia said. “We thought you ditched us so we ate already and smoked your joint.”
“I was so hungry, I had to stop and buy a 3 Musketeers bar,” he said.
I turned to him. “Your story gets more and more horrifying. Next you are going to tell us about stop signs and construction flags,” I said.
Alia gave me a severe look. “New rule, we are going to be nice to everyone at this house because we are all friends. Understand?”
I slowly nodded and excused myself. I love Alia, but these men she was tracking through the house were whiny and pathetic. I couldn’t keep quiet around them. I couldn’t swallow their complaints and gripes.
Recently, I was asked why I gravitate towards younger men. “Because they are nicer,” I said. It seems simple. I don’t mean to say no old men are nice, and all young men are nice. I mean to say young men still have a sense of wonder, they still listen to you and pay attention. They make you feel pretty and sexy without putting you down. They play silly games and laugh like an orgasm when they catch your joke. They love you the way you should love someone, not the way you try to remember.
That is the difference between old people and young.
I received a voicemail from Michael one or two nights before. “Hey, I need to have feelings talk. Call me back.”
I rarely returned Michael’s phone calls because we were never close and often drunk. One particular night, I was in another text message exchange with QB, the Quarterback of which I had a platonic affair with in Washington State.
“I know you like me because you always text me when you are drunk,” he wrote.
“Please,” I wrote back.
“I am going out with a girl tonight,” he wrote. The only way he knew to get things started was through jealousy.
“Well, that sucks for you because a) I am a sex goddess and b) you like me.”
“Yeah right. And … yeah.”
“I like you, too,” I wrote. I was tipsy from drinks with someone, somewhere. I always came back to West Hills though, stumbling up the grassless lawn over New Mexican pebbles and cactus. I opened the door to a few throaty barks from Brad, my terrier, and then was covered in pool of dog kisses and wagging tails. Anyone who loves a dog learns what coming home really feels like.
“I knew it! I knew you would have sex with me!” he wrote.
“Way to ruin it,” I wrote.
“Sorry. I am drunk.”
From there things escalated to a picture battle. He would send me a pic of himself topless in the bathroom, and I, unabashedly, asked everyone in the house to take pictures of me in a fishnet dress. Somewhere in the mix, Michael called and I just said, “Come over.”
He did. That was unexpected.
I should preface the following sequence with: I was sure he was gay and I was intoxicated. I handed him my phone and asked him to take topless pictures of me. He directed me, as Alia and Ryan retired from the position 30 minutes beforehand to watch a movie.
“What’s next? Is it Los Angeles or Belgium?” I asked, knowing his girlfriend lived in Belgium.
“Right now it is a toss up. ha ha.”
“Come here now!” I wrote.
“i just started a new construction position that pays really good.” He called soon after, and we chatted on the phone. “I was thinking I could come down there next summer,” he said.
“I don’t know if I will be sexually available then!” I declared. He was silent and I realized I was being too intense again. “That would be nice,” I softened. We chatted. Nothing especially dirty. Nothing especially promising. We just chatted. And when we said goodbye, we both chuckled like we were buddies.
The pictures kept coming. My breasts. My pubic mound. He pushed for my vagina but I never gave in. He sent me a picture holding his erect cock with red, pubic hair around the base. I saved it on my phone and insisted on looking at it with my first cup of coffee every morning for two weeks.
When the drunk texts were through, when Gary was snoring on the couch, when Ryan and Alia disappeared under a blanket of soft words and pleasure … I stumbled into my bedroom and collapsed on the floor with my dogs, still naked under my fishnet dress. The door to my bedroom cracked open and I saw Michael’s head peer in and heard him gently close the door behind him. I thought, “God, now I will have to reject him. Now I have to hurt his feelings.”
I rolled on the floor like a drugged sow in the mud, feeling around for her next feeding of slop. He laid next to me and I felt his fingers crawl across the fabric of my dress, occasionally hitting the potholes of skin swelling between the netting.
“Oh God, I will have to tell him no. Now I have to lose my friend,” I thought. Then he kissed me. His lips slowly opened my mouth, gradually, sensually. I invited his tongue into my mouth and I felt the spark, that inexplicable spark from one head to another. “Please, whatever happens, keep walking my dogs for me,” I said, gasping for the room’s stale air under his mouth.
“I promise,” he said.
Before he entered me, I said, “I haven’t been tested for STDs recently, and I have had a decent amount of unprotected sex.”
“I don’t mind,” he said. Then I felt him inside of me, and realized his penis was larger than the proportions of his body. He lunged. He fired air at my mouth. He buried his hair into the crevice of my shoulder, moaning like a child. Those moans are what got me. He sounded like he was breaking open from pleasure. The youth, the inexperience, the pure adrenaline exploded all over my stomach in a matter of seconds.
I caught my breath in the dark, hearing him roll over in thick, milky, saltwater. His hand spread it over my stomach onto the floor and blanket. The smell of alcohol and nicotine rotting inside his mouth, ready to be swallowed with all the other poisons of adulthood. My head spun into a dream and I thought, “That, just now, was what I really wanted.”